The Summer Man
by Yvearia
Summary: We're flawed because we want so much more. We're ruined because we get these things and wish for what we had.


_They say as soon as you have to cut down on your drinking you have a drinking problem_.

Dean sat at the long table in the library of the Men of Letters, staring at the ring of condensation pooling out on the wood around the base of his whiskey glass.

"We're outta food." Sam called as he swung around the corner, reaching for his coat hung over the back of one of the stiff rolling chairs surrounding the table where his brother sat. Dean didn't say anything, just turned back to the tablet Charlie had left for them, staring at the blank text document. "So… Groceries. I'm gonna. Go. Dean? Going to the store. Do you…"

"Huh? Pie." He glanced back at his younger brother, before picking up the glass of brown liquid and taking a quick gulp. The action seemed to satisfy Sammy and he caught the keys to the Impala when Dean tossed them over his shoulder, indicating he'd rather stay home. He turned back to the tablet screen and began typing. Though he wasn't really sure why.

_My mind is a mess. I can't organize my thoughts and typing feels like work. I've never written more than two-hundred and fifty words - not even - in high school. Five paragraphs, fifty words a piece. God, I was lazy. I should've finished high school. Everything could have been different._

"A scala?"

"A skaluh," Sam corrected. "They're associated with death cults. In the early first century AD, when Roman and Germanic Warriors were -"

Dean let himself space out. The job was the job was the job. They had started to bleed together a long time ago. It wasn't that he thought this job was any less important than any of the others. It was his mind. Every now and then - especially now, without Bobby's flask to keep him company, with the damn biblical brand causing his fingers to itch for a knife he knew he should probably never hold again - he would lose focus.

_Summer's coming. I smelled it. I kind of thought I smelled corn, which is impossible._

Glancing up from the tablet, he saw Sammy clacking away at his own keys. They were sitting in a hipster joint in North Austin, just two more young(-ish) guys, studying and drinking like the other eighty percent of the population of the college town.

"So, death cults today would translate as-"

"Black-Deathmetal bands," Dean interrupted, finishing his brother's sentence.

Sam nodded and gestured for their waitress's attention. "You want another," he asked, motioning to the empty beer bottles on the table.

"So how do we kill it?" Dean asked, shaking his head, no, as the waitress came over to see what they needed.

_There it is again. Perfume._

He lay awake in his bed back in the bunker. Sam had started asking about his uncharacteristic attachment to the tablet a couple times now. Since then it sat in his bedside table drawer.

When they were kids, Dean had never really wished for his own room. At first it had been about Sammy. Kid was his responsibility. Like a pet. He huffed out a small laugh as he thought about Sam's damn obsession with dogs.

Later, though - before the Boy's Home, but after his first sawed-off - it was more about what he deserved versus what he owed. A room of his own... Big picture, what they were doing, was enough. Making sure the world was a little safer. That was enough. He didn't need anything of his own. There were people who had so much less than that.

And when he got older, if he ever met a girl, there was always her place. Less mess that way, anyhow. It wasn't till years later that he felt comfortable wanting something for just him.

But having somewhere now... he could sit down and collect his thoughts. Not well, but at least he had that ability. He reached for the tablet and brought back up the text doc.

_More and more every day about warring demon and angel factions. I hope it's not another Apocalypse. I sound like a little girl, writing down what happened today. A list of things I'd like to do: One, climb Mount Kilimanjaro. Go anywhere in Africa, actually. Two, gain an ounce of control over the way I feel. I want to wake up. I don't wanna be that man._

Sam and Jody were wrapping things up with the local authorities, while Dean made sure the girl got home safe.

She'd been pretty freaked at first, but three days living with monster hunters had put things into perspective kinda quickly.

"Are you guys sure I'm safe now?" Her voice was soft but strong, only a hint of fear coming through the back end. "I mean, I trust you. It's just..."

"Hey. You're gonna be fine."

She scooted closer on the bench seat of the Impala, and Dean draped his arm across her shoulder as he drove toward her apartment complex.

A few minutes later, he parked the car, but left the engine running. When he turned to tell her to take care of herself - always have some kind of salt and iron handy, at least - she covered his open mouth with hers, and he was too startled to pull back.

_She's a sweet girl and she wants me to know her but I already do. People tell you who they are, but we ignore it because we want them to be who we want them to be._

After a moment, he slowly broke the kiss, gently taking her shoulders and moving her a few inches back. But she was persistent, now focusing on his jaw with her lips and teeth.

He pulled back again, this time forcing her to look at him.

"Bethany, I'm flattered. But... That's not such a great idea."

"Because you're leaving tomorrow?"

Dean sighed and closed his eyes. Trying things differently. What confused him was, he knew he should want her, but he somehow couldn't get there in his head.

"Maybe we'll see each other again sometime," he said, opening his eyes and flashing an imitation smile at the girl.

She smiled back, then reached up to place her hand on the side of his face. With a final soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, she reached for the door handle. "To be continued."

_I bet she was thinking of that line all night. I looked up at the building and I thought of all the women in there. One in every room. Touching themselves to sleep. I like sleeping alone, stretching out like a skydiver, cool patches to roll onto. I should appreciate it more._

Sammy was passed out in the motel room they had rented on the old Vegas strip. But Dean couldn't sleep, so he drove. He drove for nearly an hour, from the outskirts of Las Vegas, to Boulder City, Nevada - to the Hoover Dam.

Place was massive, always crowded with tourists whenever they happened to pass on their way to Vegas for their annual retreat - another thing he was doing, just going through the motions. But this late at night... it was pristine. Clear of people; the only cars in sight, the ones passing on their way to somewhere else. He parked the car and walked to the railing, looking down on the beautiful, dark chaos of the water churning beneath.

_When a man walks into a room, he brings his whole life with him. He has a million reasons for being anywhere. Just ask him. If you listen, he'll tell ya how he got there. How he forgot where he was going. And then he woke up_.

Images swam into his mind. The world before the monsters came.

He pressed his fingertips into his eyes, trying to rub away the memories.

_If you listen, he'll tell you about the time he thought he was an angel_.

All those years trying so hard - since before he could remember - trying to save people, to fix everyone else's mess. From the time Sam was just a baby... "It's okay, Mom. Dad still loves you. I love you, too. I'll never leave you," his child-self had said while clinging onto his mother's skirts. And so many times he'd heard Sam say, "I don't need you to take care of me, Dean!"

_Or dreamt of being perfect. _

Then there were the tense weeks leading up to locating the First Blade, locating Abadon. And after, when it was done - when _he_ was finally done. He opened his eyes on a world that was sharper, with a bright darkness. And the _goodness_ of what he had done _hurt_. And when he left to escape the tragedy of it, he found freedom. He found his calling. He found out who he was supposed to be. His eyes were black, and they always had been.

But once again he'd lied to himself, convincing himself - even for a little while - life was that easy. That he was where he belonged. Even if it was the furthest thing from the truth.

_And then he'll smile with wisdom, content that he realized: the world isn't perfect. We're flawed because we want so much more_.

He used to lie in bed on Sunday mornings with Lisa wrapped around him, tangled up in a mess of limbs. The kid would be playing some video game or bouncing the basketball in the driveway. And he'd think to himself, "This is everything I should want... So, why aren't I happy?"

_We're ruined because we get these things and wish for what we had._

* * *

><p>AN: The idea for this ficlet came from an interview I watched with the creator of the television show "Mad Men", Matthew Weiner. At one point he references a series of voiceovers during the MM episode entitled "The Summer Man". The italicized portions are taken from that episode. I just felt that those 'journal entries' – as they were presented in the show – really spoke to Dean's current state of mind (Early Season 10). I've tried to write it in such a way that there are no over spoilers, but I have referenced previous events a bit. I hope that you've enjoyed this little exploration into the mind of a man who is trying to discover who he is – or who he is becoming – for a second time.

Thanks for reading!

~Yve


End file.
